Sylvia Garland's Broken Heart (36 page)

Of course Anand would not stay a five-year-old child for ever. He would grow up and when he was older, he would make up his own mind; no one would be able to stop him coming to see his favourite grandmother. When he was ten or twelve, he might come by himself. That left her five to seven years to wait.

Sadly, she considered the remnants of her life in London: poor dear Ruth, now bed-ridden and barely able to communicate, Heather Bailey, her life unexpectedly taken over by an absolute invasion of grandchildren. Her daughter’s marriage had come undone and, without warning, she had arrived on her mother’s doorstep in London with her three impossibly noisy and badly behaved children who had looked so yearningly sweet far away in their photographs but proceeded to wreck Heather’s flat and life. The daughter made Heather attend AA meetings. From time to time, Heather would escape
to Sylvia’s flat for a few forbidden drinks. Sylvia used to feel sorry for Heather. It must be hard to go from a famine to a surfeit of grandchildren overnight. She had thought, rather smugly, that her illicit afternoons with Anand were pretty near perfect. But now the thought of having to listen to Heather’s complaints infuriated her; how dare Heather complain when she had her grandchildren with her round the clock? What wouldn’t Sylvia give right now for just one hour with Anand?

Sylvia wondered how long it would be until she could make up with Cynthia. Since that terrible article had appeared in
Art Review
, Cynthia had refused to speak to her. She had retaliated via her paintings. A new series of canvases called “Two Sisters” had featured sentimentally in magazines and Sunday supplements over the summer. Painted in Cynthia’s trademark palette of purples, blues and greens, the pictures depicted Sylvia as a scowling child, cradled and protected by a loving caring Cynthia. Sylvia’s feet, grotesquely misshapen, seemed to be in the foreground of every painting: bleeding and being bandaged by Cynthia, impaled on a bent and rusty nail which Cynthia’s thin fingers were delicately extracting. Sylvia shuddered; she supposed she would have to buy one and hang it on her wall before Cynthia would forgive her.

When the telephone rang again, she assumed it was Naisha. Her heart leapt up at the imagined prospect of some progress; Naisha had told Smita about their conversation and Smita had relented. Sylvia could see Anand next week.

At first, she didn’t recognise the voice at the other end;
it was a man and he was speaking very softly. It was only after a moment or two that she recognized the cultured voice of Siggy Greenborough and wondered why on earth he was speaking so quietly.

“I’m afraid my sister has taken a turn for the worse,” he was saying softly. “If you want to say goodbye to her, you should come now.”

Sylvia cried out. She was losing everybody all at once. “Where is she?” she asked, already standing up, wondering groggily where her coat and handbag might be.

“She’s here at home,” Siggy answered softly. “Where she wanted to be.”

Sylvia staggered slightly but regained control of herself with a mammoth effort. “I’m coming,” she said gently and she was pleased that, despite the state she was in, she managed to sound consoling.

After her days in bed, she felt weakened, like someone recovering from an illness herself. It took her a ridiculously long time to get ready; to smarten herself up and find her coat and shoes and handbag. The minicab company told her for some reason they were too busy to send a cab so she had to take the Tube which, with the changing, seemed to take forever. On the way, she wondered whether Jeremy and Smita had had her blacklisted by the cab company.

By the time she finally got to Overmore Gardens, it seemed to her that several hours had passed since Siggy’s phone call although probably it was only one or two. She rang Ruth’s bell and the street door clicked open but no one spoke to her through the intercom.

As she entered the familiar hallway, the reality of what
she was about to encounter made her suddenly falter. All the way there, the shock of being in a crowded, noisy Tube carriage after spending the past three days alone in bed had distracted her. In any case, compared with the prospect of losing Anand, the prospect of losing Ruth seemed deeply sad but in the natural order of things; swings and roundabouts. Still, even in the case of a ninety-year-old woman whose life was restricted to her own four walls, death was not for the faint-hearted and Sylvia had to pause and tell herself to buck up before she rang the bell outside Ruth’s flat.

The door was opened by a stranger, a short, dapper rather rotund stranger whose appearance, despite the sorrowful expression on his face, made Sylvia feel inexplicably cheerful. She must really have been at sixes and sevens because it was only when he greeted her, “Sylvia!” that she understood who he was and responded, “Siggy!”

He gestured to her to come in and closed the front door softly behind her. He offered to take her coat. Perfect manners, Sylvia noted, even in such circumstances.

“How is she?” she asked quietly. Siggy’s quietness was catching.

He turned away to hang her coat and when he turned back, he answered, “I’m afraid she’s gone.”

Sylvia blurted out, “Oh, I’m so sorry.” She didn’t know whether she was expressing her condolences or apologising for having got there too late.

“The only member of my family,” Siggy said softly. “Gone.”

After a pause, he gestured towards the end of the hallway and asked, “Would you like to see her?” and Sylvia knew she had to say yes.

Ruth was lying in bed, it seemed to Sylvia, already stiffening. Her face was a faintly blueish colour and, without any expression, it looked uncharacteristically severe.

“Goodbye my dear,” Sylvia murmured, choked.

When she turned away from the bed, Siggy was standing in the doorway, dabbing at his eyes with a perfectly pressed handkerchief.

Sylvia said, “Let me make you a cup of tea. Is Gloria here?”

Siggy shook his head. “She left after the doctor had been.”

“Well, I know my way around the kitchen,” Sylvia said. “Why don’t you go and sit down in the living room and I’ll make us both a cup of tea.”

She hoped she wasn’t being too bossy but Siggy looked faintly relieved and went docilely into the living room.

Sylvia made a pot of tea and took it in on a tray together with two of the usual cups and saucers and a plate of suitably plain biscuits. There was a deliciously moist-looking ginger cake in the tin but even though Sylvia was peckish, she felt it was inappropriate to eat cake at this juncture.

Siggy seemed to have composed himself. He took his tea appreciatively, declined a biscuit and they sat sipping for some moments in silence.

Eventually, Sylvia asked, “Did it happen quickly?”

Siggy nodded. “Gloria noticed she was breathing in a strange way this morning and called me and the doctor and by noon she was gone.”

“She didn’t suffer for long then.”

Siggy shook his head.

There was another silence.

Sylvia had so many questions, it felt as if her mouth was full of wriggling things. But most of them she didn’t dare ask: why has it taken this long for you and me to meet? Why did you run away every time we were supposed to be introduced? That story about being marooned on the Isle of Wight; how on earth could you expect me to believe that? And the emergency callout for the Magic Circle; was that an excuse too? Why were you so elusive? What did you have against me? What did you think I would be like? And, now you’ve met me, am I as awful as you imagined?

Instead she asked, “Have you phoned her children? Are they on their way?”

Siggy frowned. “Simon and his wife are coming on the night flight tonight. Giselle –” he paused, “Giselle has not yet made up her mind whether she is coming.”

Sylvia tutted. She remembered Ruth’s difficulties with her daughter.

“She had better hurry up,” Siggy added irritably. “We need to hold the funeral as soon as possible.”

“Oh surely she’ll come,” Sylvia said soothingly. Then she remembered that Ruth’s daughter had a morbid fear of flying, on top of everything else. Oh, how complicated life could be. Sylvia wondered whether Smita would allow Anand to come to her funeral.

Siggy cleared his throat. “May I ask you a favour?”

“Of course,” Sylvia said eagerly. She leant forward.

Siggy hesitated. “As I’m sure you know, Ruth and I lost our religion along the way, together with everything else. But there is one tradition which I would like to keep. I think Ruth would have wanted it. After someone dies,” his voice quavered, “and has been buried, the family and friends sit together for seven days to mourn them. In this case, there is no family to speak of and only very few friends left but would you be willing to come and sit with me to mourn my sister?”

Sylvia gulped. “For seven days?”

Siggy gave an almost mischievous smile. “Well, I wouldn’t expect you to stay all day every day, obviously. But if you could perhaps drop in from time to time, it would be a great comfort to me.”

“Of course,” Sylvia agreed. “Oh, of course.”

Only then a terrible thing occurred to her; Jeremy and Smita and Naisha might come looking for her and she wouldn’t be at home. They would interpret her unexplained absence as another sign of instability and she would be doomed. The tiny possibility of forgiveness offered by Naisha’s phone call would be snatched away. Anand would be gone forever.

She clasped her hands. “There is just one thing,” she said slowly.

Siggy waited.

Sylvia said, “I’m in terrible trouble. I’ve done something absolutely awful.”

Siggy smiled. “I can’t imagine you’ve really done
anything absolutely awful, Sylvia. I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

Sylvia answered. “Oh yes it is.” She drew a shuddering breath. “I tried to kidnap my grandson.”

Siggy’s eyebrows shot up. “Why on earth –?”

Sylvia said, “It’s a long story. But I’m not a wicked person. Believe me, I had my reasons.”

“I’m sure you did,” Siggy said. “I’m sure you did.” He looked grave but Sylvia had the peculiar impression that he was struggling to restrain laughter. “How serious is it?” he asked. “Are the police involved?”

“No,” Sylvia said. “At least, I don’t think so.”

“Because,” Siggy said, with a straight face, “if you need to disappear, I’m sure I can help you. I’m a magician, remember. I’m good at disappearing tricks.”

He couldn’t restrain himself any longer. He burst into great peals of laughter which went on for so long and became so infectious that Sylvia helplessly joined in and they sat there, hooting away, until the tears ran down their faces.

Simultaneously, they stopped. Mopping his tears, Siggy said, “I don’t mean to make light of your troubles” and Sylvia added, “I’m far too large to fit into a top hat anyway.”

“Oh,” Siggy said, “there are plenty of other ways of making a person vanish. If that’s what’s called for.”

“Well,” Sylvia said. “Well, actually, on balance, I think it’s probably better if I don’t vanish. It’s true, I really am in terrible trouble with my son and my former daughter-in-law. But I think I should still be around in case they try to get in touch with me.”

“Of course,” Siggy said. “Of course. And I wouldn’t want to impose. But if you could maybe see your way to joining me for a couple of afternoons, it would mean a great deal to me, you know.”

“Will you be here?” Sylvia asked. Wearily, she imagined herself criss-crossing London on the Tube day after day.

Siggy said, “No. I think I will do it at my home in Northwood. That will be more convenient for the few people who’re still around.” He hesitated. “Really, there are only two or three of them. And they will just drop in. I’m sure Ruth’s son will have to fly back to New York after the funeral. He won’t be able to stay on for another week. To be honest, Sylvia, most of the time it will only be you and me.”

Sylvia paused. Out of habit, she listened for Roger’s reaction but there was none. Only after a moment or two, she fancied that she heard a distant guffaw. Although she worried afterwards that the words she had used were all wrong, she surprised herself by answering simply, “Of course I’ll come. That would be lovely.”

Helen Harris has published four novels and many short stories in a wide range of magazines and anthologies. She teaches creative writing at Birkbeck College, University of London and runs a life story writing programme for older people.